Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. She returned home to the Beck house soaked and soggy. “Mr. But, perhaps Mr. Listen to me, Thames. Strangers look in and long, and neighbours are moved to envy. A door, it may be remembered, opened from Wild's dwelling into this yard. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine.
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